


belladonna between my lungs

by templefugate



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Gen, Poison, Poisoning, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 17:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templefugate/pseuds/templefugate
Summary: "I would move heaven and earth if you asked it of me, mi amigo.""And I the same for you." Were it not for the train ticket stuffed in his pocket, perhaps Hector would have meant it.





	belladonna between my lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags/warnings before reading.

"This is where our paths diverge." Ernesto sighed. His eyes wondered over the various bottles laid out across the small table, the brown and green glass glinting in the dim light.

"You must understand, there truly is nothing that I want more than to see my family." Hector scratched at his arm with his free hand, the other tightening on his suitcase's handle. "The longer we keep at this, the more that I realize that."

It had been hard enough keeping Hector there this long. Only a week prior he had frantically packed his suitcase, declaring that the only road he still felt like traveling was the one headed straight for Santa Cecilia. Had the trains in that town run on Sunday, perhaps he would have gotten his wish.

"You must understand, this isn't my dream any longer." His eyes dropped to the floor. "I don't know what else to tell you, mi hermano."

"Could you at least do one last thing for me?"

"What?" His voice wavered.

"A drink," Ernesto said, picking a tequila bottle up from the surrounding spirits. "Let's have a last one together before you go. Who knows when we'll have it next?"

"Ernesto-"

"You never refused one before."

Hector shook his head but stepped forward all the same. Leaning down, he placed his suitcase on the floor and began to pull at his guitar strap.

While Hector fiddled, Ernesto got to work. The smallest bottle, if the little glass could even be called that, was already uncorked. Ernesto poured it with the same quick, deft fingers that he played guitar with. His hand gave not even the slightest shake.

As Hector took the shot glass from Ernesto's hand, a bit of the light brown liquid sloshed out onto his fingers. Holding his hand up, he licked them clean.

"Dios mío, if Imelda could see you now! Did you lose your manners on the road?"

Hector chuckled. "Why waste it?"

"To what we had," Ernesto spoke.

"And what we still do," Hector responded.

"I would move heaven and earth if you asked it of me, mi amigo."

"And I the same for you." Were it not for the train ticket stuffed in his pocket, perhaps Hector would have meant it.

The two clinked their glasses together. Ernesto's palm was slick with sweat. He had to use his other hand to get the glass to his lips and keep it from slipping between his fingers. It burnt his throat, clawing at his skin, but went down all the same.

Hector finished first. "I might need to take this with me!" He shot a toothy grin, a look that Ernesto could only half muster in reply.

"Only took us a year, but we could finally afford something decent." He stood up, the legs of his stool scratching against the wooden floor. Ernesto put one hand on the table, the other one on Hector's shoulder.

"At least let me see you out."

When they were at the door, Hector spoke again. "You could come back with me. My doors are always open for you, mi hermano."

Ernesto's eyes wondered down towards the man's suitcase. "Not while I still have _my_ dream."

Hector left him there at the door without even a hand shake goodbye. He moved forward with the speed of a man crossing burning coals.

All Ernesto could do was watch, his own knees buckling out beneath him. The tightness that had been growing in Ernesto's chest climbed up his throat, clawed at his larynx. It was harder than a punch to the guts, worse than a smack to the head. All Ernesto could do was cough and let the pain that had been festering inside of him for so long come out for the world to see.

Hector turned, eyes widening. He dropped his suitcase and hurried back.

"Ernesto!"

His next cough sent out blood, dark and shiny like dropped coins littering the dirt. Hector pulled him up, one hand firmly against Ernesto's waist and the other his chin.

"What's going on?"

"Damn chorizos." Another round of coughs came, hard and fast. With the way his body was shaking, it'd be his stomach coming up next.

It must have taken every bit of strength in Hector's fence post frame to push Ernesto up to his feet. The two wobbled towards the nearest bed, the door behind them ajar.

"We can do something!"

Hector left him sprawled out on the mattress. Ernesto squeezed his eyes shut, his heart sinking in his chest. For so long, Hector had been a near constant presence in his life. His absence, even when he was only a few feet away, was physically tangible.

There was the sound of drawers opening, glass clinking, and boards stiffening. There was no rhythm to the noise, nothing inviting to the ears. The silence that followed was far more pleasant.

-

Though he'd seen Oscar and Felipe through the windows, it was Imelda who answered the door. There were stacks of leather in her hands and a stained apron around her middle.

"Hector!" Her face, usually so stoic, seemed to be struggling to decide on how to contort itself. Her jaw was nearly to the floor but her brows were arched downwards.

He made no reply. Only when their eyes met did her face soften.

"Oh, mi amor, what happened?"

Hector again did not answer, just stepped past her inside the house. He dropped his guitar case to the floor, the metal and wood clanking. He didn't even turn his head towards the noise.

"Your guitar!" Imelda placed her leather down and began clawing the case open. "Hector! What were you thinking?"

"He's dead." Hector's throat was raw.

"Hector?"

"Ernesto is dead." Before then, he had never said the words aloud. As he'd sat on the cramped train, he'd tried to imagine that Ernesto was still back at their last hotel in Mexico City. When that hadn't worked, he'd conjured up images of the man on a train similar to his own. Ernesto never could stay in one place for too long, not if he could help it.

Yet logic told him that he was still there in that shallow grave on the edge of the city, covered in fresh dirt and wilting marigolds. A policeman and aged priest had been the only others at the burial. They'd seen the same figure, so pale and limp, something that could barely even be called a caricature of De La Cruz, drop into the ground with a heavy thump.

"No more."

"What?" It was Oscar who spoke. By now the twins were at the entrance, eyes wide.

"No more music," Hector spoke.

"What?" Imelda spoke this time. She might as well have asked the wall.

Pushing past the twins, Hector headed for Coco's room. Finally, he had escaped the sea of cheap hotels and blur of towns. Dozens of shoes littered the floor, but he gave them no more than half a glance.

Despite all the commotion, Coco slept on. Hector stared down at her, eyes wet but lips turned upwards, and let the blanket of silence envelope them both.

-

"And that is why music is banned." Miguel had to hold back a sigh. If there was a moral to any of this, then it was to watch what he ate.

"Aye," Abuelita said, patting his shoulder.

Miguel scrunched his nose. "Well maybe he would have liked us playing music."

She shook her head. "Maybe so, but Mama Imelda and Papa Hector would roll over in their graves." She leaned forward, adjusting the ofrenda's photos. Half of his great-great grandfather's arm was missing, all because he didn't want his guitar to be seen. His great-great uncle's picture would have met the same fate had his guitar not been held tightly against his chest. Where his features were largely cast in shadows or lost due to the photo's fading colors, the guitar was clear enough that Miguel could make out every string.

"Look at him, mijo. What good did music ever get him?"

**Author's Note:**

> So I've read fics where Ernesto accidentally poisons himself, but have yet to see a purposeful one. I'd like to imagine his craving for fame but creative dependance on Hector were a bad mix. Combined with his pompous exterior, he's a mess that he doesn't know how to clean up.
> 
> Also, what's an easy way to get well remembered? Die, especially young and in a way that seems senseless and random. Ernesto is Catholic - he's heard a thing or two about the wonders of martyrdom.
> 
> Ernesto: That's what you *cough* get for leaving me.


End file.
